


Pleasantries

by RurouniHime



Series: The Arrangement series [4]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Draco Angst, Established Relationship, Harry is proud of his man, Lunch, M/M, Meet the Ex, Potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 18:08:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3391193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RurouniHime/pseuds/RurouniHime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ah, the ex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pleasantries

**Author's Note:**

> ARRANGEMENT 'VERSE! LONG TIME NO SEEEEEEEE!!!! *lots of flailing*
> 
> This one's been a long time coming. It has to do with Six Months of Manchester, which may not make much sense without The Arrangement as a whole, but... Oh well.
> 
> *more flailing*

There had to be a hundred people on this block alone, but this man’s smile was so completely familiar, straight from the photos. Draco’s feet stopped without his permission, and he couldn’t help the hand clamping down on Harry’s wrist. Harry looked at him, curious, then turning to follow Draco’s line of sight. His face changed again, the lines waxing smooth. The corner of his mouth twitched and he lifted his other hand in a wave.

And then pulled his wrist free of Draco’s grip so he could link their fingers, palm to palm.  
When Harry tugged him forward, Draco finally remembered to close his mouth.

“Malcolm!” Harry called.

 _Why_ was he still reacting this way? Draco hadn’t even heard the name Malcolm Davisson in three years, and his gut still leaped sideways like an angered Kneazle. He glared at the pavement, then smoothed his expression and drew himself up.

Never mind that Harry had come to _him_ after the great collapse of the life he’d been attempting, at last, to build on his own. Never mind that Draco still remembered the sex that night like they’d done it this morning, the tripped rhythm of the last two thrusts between them, the way Harry’s fingers had dug into his hips and bruised, right over the bone. And then that strange, frightening shiver as Harry came, the only thing about the entire experience that Draco hadn’t recognized.

“Hey.” Harry’s grin was audible. Davisson smiled back, as reservedly as Draco remembered. 

“Didn’t expect to see you here, Harry.” He held out his hand. Harry shook it and let go. “How are you doing?”

“Very well, thanks. You?”

Davisson shrugged. He shoved his hands in his pockets, elbows cocked out, looking as content as if he’d been born here. “Got a new shop in town.” He nodded down the cobbled avenue. Crowds of people meandered among the market stalls, mothers with children, teenagers wandering along with ice cream cones in their hands. “I’m here to oversee the opening.”

“Wait. You mean your furniture line?” 

Davisson’s smile brightened noticeably. “At long last.”

“That’s brilliant, congratulations!” Harry’s hand tightened then, pulling Draco gently closer. “Mal, I’m sorry, let me introduce you. This is Draco Malfoy.”

“Good to meet you,” Draco said. “Properly, I mean.” He extricated himself long enough to shake Davisson’s hand, but his fingers felt cold and empty, and he went searching for Harry again as soon as the pleasantries were concluded.

“Likewise.” Davisson’s smile remained easy. He certainly _looked_ comfortable. Draco was having a hell of a time figuring out if there was a mask in evidence. “Are you two here for the market?”

“Actually, it’s business. Draco’s at the convention downtown for the weekend.”

“The potions conference? That’s huge, all the inns are full between that and this.” Davisson indicated the crowds. 

“He’s moderating a panel tomorrow on the legality of genetic splicing in potions ingredients,” Harry said. “And presenting as spokesman for Montmorice the same afternoon.”

Davisson’s eyes flickered to Draco and lingered, then darted away again. Draco checked the passage of his own eyes. Salazar’s knickers, he was _not_ going to be the one assessing too openly.

Malcolm Davisson had hair the color of sunlit wheat, and he was taller than Harry. Taller than Draco, for that matter. He apparently wore flip flops, jeans, t-shirts, and had perfect teeth. Not obnoxiously talkative or embarrassingly reclusive. And now he was attentive, too, his gaze moving between them, even if he didn’t exactly catch Draco’s eye again.

Had Harry spoken of Draco in Manchester, as he’d spoken of Davisson after? If so, what had he said? What hadn’t he said? What image might Davisson have built out of those words? The cadence of Davisson’s voice in conversation did not falter, but his smile changed a little every time Draco moved.

Did Davisson feel uncertain about him?

The idea wasn’t nearly enough to make Draco release his grip on Harry’s hand.

“I’m afraid we’re just off for lunch,” Harry was saying. “In fact—What time is it?” he asked, turning to Draco. 

“We’ve got twenty minutes.”

Davisson stepped back. “Well, I won’t keep you, then. Godric knows, you’re going to have queues in all the shops.” He rocked in Harry’s direction, but his hands did not move from his pockets. “It was good seeing you, Harry. Draco, nice to meet you.”

Not _Nice to_ finally _meet you._ Draco nodded. Harry said goodbye and Davisson walked the other direction, drifting back into the crowd.

They stopped at the Pret and got sandwiches and sodas. Harry grabbed a bag of crisps, and they shared them, licking salt and vinegar from their fingers. Draco did not let go of Harry’s hand then either, even to pay for their meal or to eat. Bollocks, but he was being obvious, he could see it on Harry’s face. It made him feel petulant and young, and Harry, damn him, didn’t say a word.

The return to the conference hall was as meandering as the river they walked alongside. As they left the path and angled up onto the grass in front of the convention center, Harry’s eyes flicked down to their joined hands. “You all right?”

“Fine.”

Harry glanced at their hands again. 

Draco cleared his throat. “Just.”

He stopped walking. Harry lifted their hands between him and kissed the back of Draco’s, touching Draco’s knuckles twice with his lips before meeting his eyes.

“He knows, doesn’t he?” Draco said suddenly. He gestured between himself and Harry, watching his own flailing and feeling idiotic. “That we never. While you two were.”

Buggering fuck, that wasn’t what he wanted to talk about. His ears were reddening, he knew it was as visible as the gargantuan building before them. What he wanted to talk about swirled half-formed and aching in his chest, a melancholy that never quite seemed to go away. It probably never would, not even if he and Harry lived for two hundred years.

“He knows,” Harry answered.

Draco nodded, then nodded again. He didn’t know why it was so important that Davisson have a tolerable opinion of him. The knowledge wasn’t helping anyway. He didn’t dare put it into words. It was stupid, and Harry would never have—Never. Draco knew it, counted on it, loved that about Harry even when he’d cursed it, and still his chest ached for lost time.

They walked further, pausing to let a trio of laughing children rush by trailing dragon balloons. Draco thought about the tug of old loyalties, a flat in Manchester he’d only ever heard described after it was gone.

Presently, Harry spoke again.

“It’s not a question anymore, Draco. Honestly…” The soft look on Harry’s face faltered; he glanced away blankly. “If I’d had the choice, I don’t think there would have been a question then either.”

Draco swallowed. He covered their joined hands with his free one and squeezed Harry’s fingers.

**

He finally said it, when they were taking their seats at the back of what would undoubtedly be a very dull treatise on Felix Felicis. “Shouldn’t have taken us so long.”

Harry lifted his hand again, kissed his knuckles, and held them against his lips long into the introductory speech.

~fin~


End file.
